Revolutionary Steps
by spi-ti-tout
Summary: In a secluded part of the Kanto region, every step he takes is fatal for someone else. Up in big city Joward Briggs has a feeling he's onto something. The problem is he's actually right...and he can't help but be right in the middle of it.
1. Before the Beginning

This is a big revival of my interest in fiction-writing after I discovered I was rather rubbish at it the last time. I'm back with a more mature writing style and, and at 3 AM, some fuzzy vision. The idea for this formed into my head as I was walking home from work one day. Like it? Say so! Thanks : )

Disclaimer: 0.o don't 0wn p0k3mO/\/ o.0

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He got down from the almost-empty bus relieving all sorts of people from their daily qualms. Silently, he made his way alone and discreet, to where he wanted to get, through the binding alley with a semi-curving length of pavement bricks partitioning two roads equally curved, only to make to a small round-a-bout expressing the freedom of leading the tarmac further into the night or a wide left with construction on it's sides, unlighted in all their glory, cockroaches already scuttling inside, outside, and inbetween the corrugated steel pipes. The road, one of the few perhaps unattended by bright orange halogens, led further down for a reasonably modern five-storey building, filled with adults sick of their life and children wanting more of it. The pokeballs were attached to his belt.

He ignored this path, pacing on course of the white painted lane divisions to take a second left. His grey polo t-shirt and khaki jeans were simple enough for light walking (he had made sure of that), a low slung, oversized black cap with "Warning: Pokesport is contagious!" ensuring no light reached his face. This road was filled with considerably less lighting that the road he had just passed, albeit filled with villas of recent yesteryears basking in nothing but the same, some owner-filled, some not. He continued on, no reason for this peace to be disturbed - rather, reason for it _not_ to be disturbed, an array of the more expensive meter taxis trying to peek at his features before they passed on. He was fully aware of the viable consenquences of using the micro-Electrode as a torch. Educated on the matter throughly, he realized too much was at stake. Who knew if he'd even get to the end? Wanting to gain the comfort of shivering as a result of this thought, yet he knew even this he could entertain; Arboks were heat-sensitive. As he was in this highly-alert practice there was a small left, leading up to more, closer packed villas, exotic cars, beautiful females and the same five-storey apartment block.

He continued on his quest once more banging on the sidewalk as the small left became even smaller in his vision. With finality he smirked at the sudden open ended-ness of the road as yet another round-a-bout clouded his eye, surrounded by bright lamps, leading either left or right, the same two-lane roadways separated by a pavement, behind it yet another villa with a trail stretching in both directions. Audaciously this time he walked straight ahead, spit out his chewing-gum and reloaded his mouth with another, onto the roundabout threatened by the deep growl of powerful motors, picking his way hastily onto the pavement of the villa. Taking a right, he had to walk a mere three-hundred meters to another left. Sweat broke from his forehead and slithered down his thin and short but dangerously muscular body, the tension escalating slowly with every step. He closed his perfectly-sized manual pocket knife-cum-laser - all this time cleverly hidden in his folded up right hand with his left folded as well to confuse - but kept it with him in his hand, the metal covering of the knife now drenched within his sweaty palm. He took a last left, filled with yet more villas, walked across the street into his small one-floor rented housing, opened his door quickly but quietly as he had always done with experience valuable enough. Inside and content he was alone, he nervously housed the wrong key into the lock, his effort unaided by the gum, cursed softly and locked the door with the wrongly-placed right key. "Of course", he thought. "Stupid." Even a small mistake like this could spell the end of his revelation.

Funny thing is, nobody from outside noticed him, but when the police arrived two minutes later, his body was strewn on the floor, a bloody mess.

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I have no idea where this is going to lead, at the moment I have ideas (rare moment, they'll be gone by tomorrow) but it would be helpful to have some conservative criticism from anyone. I haven't completely spell checked it either, though that _is_ my fault. Or my brain's. "

Have a good day all  
spi


	2. The Beginning

**I'm back with the second chapter after a few weeks of deciding where the plot should go. I have one in my mind that I'm using to fill this with, but if you think yours is better then don't hesistate to say why. Reviewing will be appreciated but please, people, keep it constructive. Thanks!**

Disclaimer: Never claimed to own Pokemon so why do I suddenly need to "disown" it?

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Detective Joward Briggs slammed the report on his table with such force the paper flew out of his sweaty fingers and he hit the table with his fist instead, the favorite coffee mug his mother had given him for christmas some years ago an inch off the edge of his desk. He always seemed to be lucky with the coffee mug, but apparently that was where the luck ended. At that precise moment Briggs would have given anything in the world for that coffee mug to break and instead not get another of what he called "the lost cases." The name couldn't have been more appropriate in his opinion; they were always about lost people and he nearly always lost his temper when he got them because he considered it another loss for the department to be loosing so much valuable time on cases too loose to solve.

The only syllabel that could be understood as his words escaped the escapade of spit flying out at the same time was "mit!". Nobody paid any attention, they were far too used to this routine to bother. Give Joward a crappy case, pressure him, make it look like his fault if it isn't done by the extremely-short deadline. Nobody liked Joward Briggs, aged 23, with his spiky blond hair, unbuttoned first button on the light-blue shirt, rolled up sleeves, baggy trousers and a loose golden tie, but nobody really knew why. It had just passed on, like a contagious infection. Was it because he was good with the girls? Because he had achieved a high position so quickly while they had had to refer to year-long sprees of sucking-up? Or maybe because he had unusual Pokemon for partners with him? But one thing was certain. Compared to the staff of any Kanto P.D, Briggs was different. And people were always afraid of what was different.

Looking down at the report Joward found to his surprise that it was not a lost case. No, this was different. A dead body! Could it be? Had his chance finally come? Excitedly he began to sift through the possiblities - Murder? Suicide? Eagerly he flicked through the pages, tracing the typed sentences with his fingers all the way to the end. He read the specifics with a raised eyebrow: no prints, no signs of abuse, no sign of any other presence even. The autopsy had come out clean - not even the source of the blood had been found. Door still locked, nothing touched. Anybody else in the force would already start worrying about not being able to solve such a mystery but Briggs was far from perplexed. He would have whooped out if he could but in the ultra-professional enviroment they would look for any of that sort of behavior to fire him, so he decided to just let it go. He grabbed his car keys, and, just before closing the door, caught a glimpse of the mug in the flickering yellow lumination, thankful that the mug was still there. As he slammed the door, the mug tilted a little less than halfway on it's edge.

The first thing he noticed when he entered the house was the sense of security. As he entered the house he momentarily directed his glance towards the locks on the door, and started making mental notes. There were four number-key locks and a regular lock. Not only were the number-locks rare but also who would use them for just a house? Turning right he entered the main hall, his narrow and tall frame bearing no trouble with the wooden arch, a pull-up bar pressing the sides which he had to bend down to avoid. In the main hall there was a small window through which he could see his car parked outside, steel bars all around. Inside there was a bottle of perfume, a cellphone and countless empty Pokeballs. Other than those the light-orange tiled, yellow-walled room was completely empty. Suicide was temporarily ruled out. After all, would a man go through all this just to rest himself forever? No, he would have to come back and take a better look in the morning.

As he studied his mental notes carefully while stepping out of the hall, his head hit the pull-up bar which he, until now, had not considered worthy (or suspicious) enough to be part of the tedious subjugation that was about to follow. That is, until he realized his forehead had just knocked a carefully-camouflaged button on the bar. The number-keys automatically locked, windows blinded and he heard a well-defined noise behind him.

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**Thanks for reading!**

**: spi**


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